Not Guilty
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: My attempt to explain House's weird behavior after his arrest. Something happened between House and Tritter that we never heard about. Something terrible.. Warnings for the usual stuff, OOC, AU, slash, and mentions of child abuse and sexual assault
1. The Mistake

Not Guilty: Missing and extended scenes throughout the Tritter episodes. Something happened between House and Tritter, something more than we never heard about. How else can you explain House's odd behavior after the night he was arrested? This is my attempt to explain it. Warnings for my usual stuff, including OOC, AU, slash, child abuse, and a sexual assault.

Day One:

House stared up at the enormously tall paitent in a combination of shock and—he hated to admit—fear. It wasn't that he had never been attacked by a paitent before, but usually he had done something to deserve it. This guy didn't want to know what was causing his crotch to rot, or else he would have listened when the doctor gave him a plausible, clear, concise, and correct answer, that explained everything. The man didn't kick the cane out from under him to keep House in the room; he wanted more. When Greg looked at the man, he saw something terrifying in his eyes. If asked to describe it, he'd be at a rare loss for words, except to explain that he remembered the expression from his own childhood. It was the same face his father would make when he got mad at young Greg, right before he exploded.

"Run the test," Tritter ordered, but Dr. House didn't respond. He was a big boy now, and perfectly capable of fending for himself. _No way I'm gonna let some moron who can't keep his hands to himself push me around…again._ "Or I can bash your head into the wall until you're feeling more cooperative." The man flashed him a friendly smile, like it was all a joke. The doctor did as he was told, but he got back at the guy, because he was stronger now. He could stick up for himself, and he did.

XX

Later in the afternoon, Wilson noticed something unusual about his friend's gait. He had been limping for years, save for the three months this summer, but usually it was a stiffness in the man's thigh. Now he was practically skipping, as if refusing to put weight on any part of his right leg, upper, or lower. James suspected that his friend had injured his ankle or calf earlier that morning.

"Stop staring," House snapped, upset less with Jimmy, and more because of the paitent—_why can't I stop thinking about that_, he wondered. _It was nothing_—who had him frustrated and unnerved despite Greg's attempts to tell himself that it was not a big deal. "I can't pee with you watching me like I'm in on display. Know it's tempting and all, but we're in a public bathroom. Someone could walk in on us." Of course he knew why Wilson was looking at him this way. Obviously his banged up shin was very noticeable.

"What's up with that?" the brown-haired, pretty boy asked, gesturing towards his leg. "You're not still messing around with that damn skateboard, are you?" House's biggest concern wasn't Jimmy finding out that he'd gotten the crap beaten out of him by yet another paitent, but that he wouldn't believe the story, or worse, he'd say it was well deserved.

"I just lost my footing, tripped, and fell against a door in the clinic. Guess I'm still getting used to not being able to walk again." His answer was always the same, whether he was four or forty-four. It was always _I fell_ and never _he hit me_. Greg wanted to tell, he did, but it wasn't that simple. It wouldn't help. As soon as Jimmy found out what he'd done with the thermometer, any pity he did have would fly out the window.

"Well, I guess you must not have seen the thing. The door makers must not mark them very well. Maybe they ought to be painted bright, neon colors, with a giant sign above it that says door."

"Oh shut up," he said, forcing a small smile. He flushed, and went to wash his hands, still skip-stepping. He was half hoping Wilson would leave him alone, the other half desperately needing to talk about what had happened, and ask—beg—for help.

"Can I take a look at your leg?" he asked, following the older man into to his office. Greg shrugged, sitting in a chair by the door, putting his feet up. Jimmy rolled his pant leg up slightly, prodded and poked the sore spot, and tested his rang of motion. "Doesn't appear to be broken, but you're gonna half one hell of a bruise. Should probably get an x-ray just to be sure."

"I'm fine; go away." Only, that was the last thing he really wanted. Wilson sighed, touching Greg's hand. "You got a paitent coming in pretty soon?" Jimmy smiled gently, as if to say, she can wait, but she couldn't, and apparently neither could Greg's. Soon Cameron, Chase, and Foreman were all in the office needing to talk to him.

"We're not done talking about this, got it?" James asked on his way out. Again Greg nodded, looking away, and trying his best not to look too pathetic. "Call me when you get off work."

XXX

Some time after that, Cuddy yelled him, and then forced House to go into her office to talk to the man. Then, she left. Rather than admit to being scared, apologize, or do anything else to make the giant happy, he acted like himself. He wouldn't apologize. He wouldn't cry. He'd take his punishment like a man, no matter what that might be, but he wouldn't allow himself to be bullied into doing anything this creep wanted.

"If you've come to return the thermometer, it's okay. I've moved on." Greg couldn't help but notice how Tritter had gone from being across the room to standing extremely close to him in seconds, and stood, poised for an attack. "Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna tell my boss I kissed your ass, and you're gonna brag to your buddies about how you made the big, bad, scary doctor cry, but this is the kicker. We're both gonna be lying. So, can we agree to just cut the crap and go back to work?"

"Relax, Dr. House, I don't want to sue you," he chuckled again, reaching out to touch the man's face. Greg swatted his hand away, but pretended to be smiling all the same.

"Good," he said, weakly, pathetically, hating how much he felt like that same, sad, scared, little five-year-old boy. Tritter still looked happy, and it was making him extreamly uncomfortable. You're supposed to be suspicious of people who smiled that much, because they are almost always dangerous.

"I wanna kick your ass," he said, his face still just as happy, and terrifying as always. _Crap,_ he thought. _Maybe I can break his arm or something with my cane, give myself a head start, and get to my office before he can touch me. _

"Less good." House's heart was beating like a hummingbird. He was terrified, and his leg was hurting even worse than usual, but managed he to think his way into speaking. "But you'll settle for an apology?" The man nodded. "Doesn't exactly leave a lot of room for sincerity."

"I don't care if it's sincere. I just wanna see you humiliated. Or," he grabbed the doctor by the shoulders, pressing tightly against him. House felt his stomach drop. "We can come up with something else, a way to…even the score." Once again he came up with a witty retort, and limped off, before anything too terrible could happen. He finished his work, solved the case, and went out to the parking lot, with absolutely no plan to call Wilson. The only thing he wanted to do was go home, swallow a fist full of Vicodin and half a bottle of bourbon, then lay on the sofa staring at the TV for the rest of the night.

XXXX

He drove faster than he should have, trying to get to his apartment as quickly as humanly possible. Until he heard the siren behind him. Dr. Gregory House pulled his bike over to the side of the road, climbed off, trying to make himself look as pathetic as possible, by clutching his bad leg, leaving the cane in its place just in case the idiot cop thought he was trying to use it as a weapon. _Alright, it's not a big deal. Just a speeding ticket. Don't say anything obnoxious and you'll probably get away with a warning. Maybe. Hopefully._ Then he saw the police officer's face, and enormous stature. _Ohh crap!_

"If you had bothered to look at my file, you'd have known that I'm a detective." _It's just like I said,_ he thought to himself. _ He's got you no speeding, nothing else. Not a big deal. Don't antagonize him, and the bastard won't be able to touch you._

"This is your big revenge? A speeding ticket? I wasn't driving over 60, which means that even if you lie about how fast I was going, it'll only cost me, at most, a hundred bucks. You should just let me go, otherwise, might make you look vindictive."

"Well, _doctor, _if you must know, I didn't pull you over to issue a speeding ticket." Greg gulped. _He can't do this. Obviously the guy's on duty. He can't take you anywhere for—he can't do it in the car, or at the police station because that would just be stupid. He'd get caught and/or leave DNA. _ "You took a pill, while you were examining me. That's serious, addictive behavior." House barred his teeth, trying to stay calm as the cop grabbed his arms, pushing them up behind his head, twisting hard.

"What are you gonna do?" he croaked. Tritter laughed again, touching him some more, this time squeezing Greg's shoulder. _I haven't done anything wrong_, he whispered to himself, like a child, knowing that even if the giant heard him, he wouldn't agree.

_You're a bad little boy, and I absolutely have to do this to you, Greg. Believe it or not, little guy, this hurts me a whole lot more than it hurts you._

Greg felt himself gulp as the man slipped his hand into is front pants pocket. "I bet you're carrying right now." Hands went everywhere. Greg swallowed hard, nervously, and hated it. _But I did nothing wrong, _he wanted to told Tritter something obnoxious, sarcastic, and rude. "Got a prescription for these?" the cop asked, after spending far too long patting him down, slipping fingers in places where he couldn't possibly have kept pills.

"I'm a cripple, who works in a hospital! Don't you think I could get a valid prescription," he barked, attempting to save face. _Please, please, _he thought. _There's got to be hundreds of people driving by. Just let one of them see us, and stop. I can't go through this again._

"Arrogant bastard like you, I doubt you even bother." _I hate you,_ House thought pitifully, but he wasn't 100% certain which you to whom he was referring, himself, his father, the cop, or… "Greg House, you are under arrest for possession of a controlled substance. You have the right to remain silent, which I suggest, you exercise." Tritter placed a finger over Greg's quivering lips. "Although, there might be a way to work things out, and not have to worry about you getting into too much trouble." He almost agreed. He almost closed is eyes, behaved himself, and pretended like none of this was really happening.

"Get your fucking hands off of me, or I'll sue you," he swore, swinging is cuffed arms at the jerk. But he fell to the ground, and Tritter kicked him in the ribs, and reached down with his nightstick, slamming it into the doctor's shoulder, hard. Greg heard a snap, and pain exploded all through his right arm.

"That can't be good," the detective chuckled some more, pushing the doctor into the back seat of his squad car.

"What are you gonna do to me?" House heard himself ask in that terrified, child-like voice, one he hadn't used in years. He couldn't stand himself.

"I think we'll have more fun if we keep that one a surprise," Tritter told him, as he pulled away from the curb. House stared out the window, first watching his bike, trying not to let himself imagine what would happen next, and then turned to look at the street signs, attempting to pinpoint his location. He still had his cell phone, and technically would be able to call Jimmy, stop this, save himself. Maybe. Greg had been to the local police station two or three times before, and he knew that they were not headed for the precinct. And, as the car pulled into the parking lot of sleazy looking motel, House allowed himself a single, silent tear, before he closed his eyes, and attempted to shut off his brain.


	2. I'm Telling

AN: I know I had a quick "prayer" in the last draft of the first chapter, but I got rid of it, because I think it works better at the end of this chapter.

Day Two:

"What the Hell took you so long?" House demanded, trying to hide the absolutely agonizing pain in his shoulder, the cold numbness inside of him, and the soreness in other parts of his body. He wasn't doing a very good job of it, though. He wasn't sure if he should tell Wilson what he'd been through or not.

_I have to. There's still time to go to the hospital for an exam. Dumbass didn't even make me shower, _he thought to himself, but he had doubts. What if Wilson didn't believe him? How much would it hurt to open up about one of the worst things that ever happened to him, only to be ignored, laughed at, or called a liar? _How did I get to the point where my usual level of misery was so high, that __this__ seemed normal?_

"Sorry, I didn't have $5,000 in my loose change jar," Wilson taunted. Greg grimaced, watching helplessly, as his best friend walked at his side, acting as if bailing him out of jail was ordinary, something to be expected. "What happened?" _Tritter tried to beat me up in the clinic, and I did something stupid, pissed him off enough to make him wanna do something, way, way, worse. Think, I've go a broken clavicle, and there's…_The thoughts House had tried so hard to put together, straighten out, practice, and work up the nerve to tell Jimmy about were shattered in an instant. "I mean come on. How stupid can you be? A cop? You attacked a cop??" _He attacked me first! I was protecting myself._

"Didn't know he was a dick, or I would have done something, I mean, uh—I wouldn't have, I would of," he stammered, stupidly. Wilson stopped, standing face to face with his friend, looking right into Greg's pain-filled eyes.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked, but the only response was a shrug, followed by a wince. "What did you do? Walk into another door?" Wilson knew that something was wrong with Greg, but until he was willing to talk about it, there wasn't much point in pushing him into it.

"No, I met up with Julie after work. Turns out she gained seventy pounds, and well...one thing led to another and the next thing I knew, she was sitting on my—actually, maybe I should leave the rest of the details private." The drive to the hospital was filled with the sound of Greg tapping his cane against the floor, Wilson's stupid questions, and precious little else.

"What were you thinking? How did this happen? What are you gonna do now?" Wilson shouted at him. Greg shrank away, slightly, shifting his weight back and forth on the seat, trying to get comfortable.

"It's over. He was embarrassed, wanted to humiliate me, and he did. Nothing left to worry about." Jimmy didn't buy this. House had gotten himself arrested and despite his claims that Greg needed the pills, really was in pain, and that the prescriptions were all legit, the cop seemed less than convinced. Still, there was nothing more to do for now. Either Greg was right, and it _was_ over, or, he was right, and something bad was coming. At the hospital House changed clothes in his friend's office, listening to his team discuss their new case, and Cameron's worrying about his being late. _At least she still gives a crap about me._ He thought about telling James again, but the man was in no mood to listen to anything he had to say. He got rid of his team quickly, and limped down the hall to go take a shower, but before he had a chance, House got a call from his landlord. _Damnit, you already all of last night humiliating me over and over and over, what more do you want?_ _Oh well, at least this time there's a bunch of them in my place, so I won't be alone._

XX

He was quiet, behaved himself, and felt perfectly fine, and would have stayed that same way, except that Tritter ordered is men to leave the room. Standing inches away, the man seemed so tall, so menacing. He was absolutely fucking terrifying. Then, the giant made a comment about how Greg couldn't be in that much pain without ever missing work.

"Did you consider the possibility that maybe that's the reason I never miss a day?" he snapped. The cop smiled, touching him on the hip this time, and stuffed another piece of gum into his horrible, disgusting, evil, big, fat, mouth.

"Yeah, I thought about that," he mocked. "But I also thought about what an obnoxious, unprofessional ass you are, and I figured, if you're unprofessional in one area," he paused, hand sliding lower. "If even a few of these are in somebody else's name or swiped from the pharmacy when nobody was looking? Hmm?" he asked, shaking the baggie. "Nothing? Do you even care, or is this…oh, I spoke too soon. There it is. Look at the poor, little baby," he spoke in baby-talk. "Are you gonna cry, little baby?"

"I'm telling," he whimpered. Detective Tritter smiled once more, rubbing Greg's face, with the back of his hand. He didn't have to say anything. House knew what was coming next. _They won't believe you._ "Wilson will."

"Wanna bet?" He laughed. That sound broke him in half.

"Leave. You got what you wanted, no let me clean my apartment in peace." Of course he didn't clean up, or go back to the hospital. Instead he drove down to Trenton's Saint Francis Medical Center, where he got his shoulder x-rayed.

"Yep," the intern—House had nicknamed him Dr. Imbecile—explained, as if to an idiot. "That's definitely broke. It's a break in what we call the—" House cut him off, more annoyed than angry.

"I'm a double board certified physician, you moron. I know what bone is. It's just a hairline fracture. Don't hafta put me in an immobilizer. I'll be fine." The doctor nodded, and started to walk away. "Hey! I'm in _pain_ here!"

"I'll have the nurse get you some Ibuprofen." Greg sighed. He knew it was pretty pointless to ask, but he had to try. Then, he left before the nurse came back, and went to talk to Wilson.

"What did you say to the cop?" he demanded. _Stop_, his brain screamed_. Don't get mad! Tell him! If you tell him now, Tritter gets thrown off your case, or worse, and since you got the crap kicked out of you and worse, nobody else is gonna try and touch you, or your pills, and Jimmy will make it all better._

"Nothing," Wilson said, honestly, just standing still, not fidgeting, not touching his mouth, not looking away. He was telling the truth, or he was lying but he didn't feel nervous and or guilty about it. _Tell him! Do it, right this minute, or he's gonna end up hating you!_

"Nothing as in nothing or as in nothing that would make him think I had a stash?" The other doctor looked at House stupidly. "Cops raided my apartment, found a butt-load of pulls." _At least he didn't find the box. Not that it matters. He's still going to nail your ass to the wall._

Great, now my mind's taunting me. Even I don't like myself. Wilson yelled at him, sort of. House pretended not to care, and limped back to his office, to be alone, which—naturally—didn't happen. He wasn't alone for hours.

XXX

Later that night, as he lay on the sofa, starting at a TV show about something—he couldn't for the life of him pay attention—House allowed himself to cry again, but he couldn't keep it up. The crying was so physically exhausting that he had to give up after less than five minutes.

"Okay," he sobbed, in the darkness. You win. Do you want me to go to rehab? I should stop taking the pills, be nice to people, convert to Buddhism, or Christianity, or whatever, is that it? Whatever you want, I'll do it. I'll do anything, but I need Jimmy. Without him, it's over; I'm finished. Just don't take him away from me. I've spent my entire life hanging over the edge of a cliff, holding on by nothing but my fingernails. Then, Wilson came along and he lowered a rope. So, I let go of the cliff, grabbed onto the rope, but now… If he lets go—when he lets go, if the fall isn't fatal—see, you have to understand. People don't _like_ me. I don't care, really, I don't, because I can't stand them either. It's been like that as long as I can remember, but with him, I don't know what happened. Our friendship, spending time with him, and that thing he does when I'm falling asleep, I don't know how, but the guy makes me feel good, and it's not just because he gives me Vicodin. I can't do it. Fuck... I think I've had way too much too drink. I'm not just talking to myself I'm talking towards the ceiling, to some all-knowing, imaginary being that not only created everything in the universe, but made human beings out of dust. I haven't prayed for anything, I haven't asked for anything since I was six, because I can't…because you—because I stopped believing in you. Because there is no you. People made you up to make ourselves feel better about how much the world sucks. I am such a loser. Maybe I do deserve this."

House didn't like how quickly his thoughts had turned against him. How low his self esteem was. Almost all of his problems were caused by his father. When he brought home an A, John would ask the little boy why it wasn't an A+. In fifth grade, Greg convinced his school to let him take part in the science fair, even though it was only supposed to be for the high school students. He won, of course, but his father didn't even admit that he'd done a good job. "Well, at least he's finally starting to live up to his supposed potential. I was starting to think he cheated on that smarts test," he said, and went back to reading the newspaper.

He was scared sometimes. He hurt all the time. He was sad all the time, and he was weak. Tritter saw it in him, and the cop had used Greg's weaknesses to his advantage. There was a fairly good chance that he was about to loose everything he had, his friend, a—somewhat—safe place he could call home, a job he was good at, amazing at, actually, and then there were the pills. Greg knew he was an addict, understood exactly what that meant, and how people looked down on him for it, but once again their opinions didn't matter.

_They take away my pain, _he told Wilson once, and it was the truth. If something annoyed him, the pills made it go away. If his leg hurt, they stopped the pain. If he saw that horrifying look in someone's eyes, they made Greg forget what he'd been through, and when he was nervous, or panicked, they helped calm him down. What more could he want? House fell asleep and dreamed that he was in a cage in the middle of the woods, being attacked by a monster who looked like a combination of his father and Tritter. When he woke up the next morning he actually looked, and felt worse than he had when he went to sleep. _Oh well, _he told himself, as he stood beneath the scalding water in the shower. _At least it can't get any worse._


	3. From Bad To Worse

Days Three through Seven:

"You stole my prescription pad, and forged my signature," Wilson raged. He was furious. House couldn't remember the last time his friend had looked at him that way, if ever. Greg tried making the, _what do you expect; it's me_ face, but it didn't help. Jimmy was pissed off!

"What did you tell the cops?" he asked nervously, pulling at the bread from is sandwich but not actually eating it. He had been so afraid Jimmy would betray him since they'd first gotten close. It was bound to happen sooner or latter. At least he was right about that, which made him slightly more comfortable because at least he was right in his belief that he could never trust another human being for any reason, or any amount of time.

"I lied. They would have taken away your medical licensee, after they put you in prison for ten years.' _Not to mention what Tritter will do to me_, Greg thought, too afraid to voice the idea. _The cop was right. Wilson __**won't**__ believe you._

"Good, then there's nothing they can do. The important thing is to keep prescribing the same amount so they don't get suspicious." Wilson gave him a dirty look, and yelled. _Jimmy, he attacked me! Please, don't listen to anything that creep says. Help me! Please! _"We have nothing to worry about. He has to prove that I either got the pills illegally, or sold them illegally. I didn't do the second, and you lied about the first."

"Yeah, Tritter's just testing you," Jimmy smirked. House couldn't believe this was happening. His so-called best friend was siding with the guy who had, and would continue to, hurt him. Unless somebody stopped it. "He just wants to see how smart you are and then he's gonna give up." _No, he's gonna keep on breaking my bones, beating the crap out of me, and other stuff, until I end up in jail, the nuthatch, or dead._ "Okay, you don't buy into that one, or it doesn't matter to you. Look at it this way; having forced me to lie to the cops, risk my career, and my reputation, your first concern is maintaining your drug connection!"

_Of course I give a crap about what happens to you Jimmy, but you're the good one. You didn't do anything wrong. Plus you're not his type. The cop won't mess with you. And you won't ever let anything really bad happen to me. I think. I hope. Although a couple of days ago, that was one Hell of a bad night. _"What are you hiding?" Jimmy asked, but he didn't respond. "Something isn't right. You look…different. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were scared of something. I can see it in your eyes. Did something…happen?" Unfortunately, he didn't get to answer the question, because he was right about Vegetative State Guy's kid, and he ended up with a case. He also woke up a man who had been practically dead for more than ten years, and was forced to discuss some of the most terrible things that had ever happened to him.

"If you could hear one thing from your father what would it be?" the man had asked. Greg already didn't like the guy. He wasn't gonna hit or—_hurt_—him, but something wasn't right.

"Doesn't matter, wouldn't help you," he said, honestly, trying to act brave, but he didn't know what else to say. "You were—I'd wanna hear. I want him to—he did something that—it was awful, and I'll never forgive him, never, but if he would just…admit what he did to me, that he knew it was wrong, and was sorry, I might, maybe be able to try to start…working on it, but he delights in torturing me, so I'm not only deprived of a relationship with him, but I can't spend time with my mother, the only person who ever gave a crap about me." The man looked like he felt guilty, but quickly steeled his face.

"You're right. That's not helpful. Sorry," he said. House wondered if the guy was apologizing for forcing the information out of him, or for what he had been through, but he didn't care. This man wasn't his father. Hearing "I'm sorry" from a stranger didn't help. The man gave up his life, and his heart, to save his son, and Greg and Wilson went home to discover that Tritter had been talking to his team. Naturally, Chase had some stupid thing to say to him. Although—as was also fairly common—he had an insight or two.

XX

"Tritter's pretty intense, don't you think?" the baby-faced, doctor asked, hair flopping into his eyes. His boss shrugged, rubbing his arm a little. "He put a—he touched my hand. It wasn't…inappropriate, but," Robert's voice trailed off. He looked away, almost ashamedly, eyes looking all about the room. "My mum had a lot of boyfriends after my dad left." He touched his eyes. _Oh crap, _House thought, _now he's going to confide in me_.

"Look, can we just get past the part where you tell me about whoever and whatever, and move on to the way I should care about your opinion of the cop, or whatever else it is you're trying to tell me," he commanded, trying not to blow his top. _Don't yell at the kid. He's just a scared little wombat. _"He used to get this look in his eyes—no, get is the wrong word. He always had the look. A lot of people have it, and almost all of them are very bad people. Tritter has that look."

"I can take care of myself." Chase placed his hand on the other man's wounded shoulder. He flinched. "If I can tell that you were abased, then so can the cop, and he's going to do something a lot worse than I ever would." Greg tried to calm himself, tried to stop acting like a victim.

"Don't touch me," he ordered, pushing away, refusing to let his body react to the pain in his right shoulder. Robert was holding back and _I told you_ so expression. "I can take care of myself," he reiterated, but Chase didn't buy it. "Fine, I'll go tell Wilson. Now get out of my way." The duckling walked towards the door, eyes turned down, looking more like a toddler than ever. "Oh yeah, if you tell Cameron—or anyone else—about any of this, I'll deny it and fire you.

XXX

House got up, and walked down the hall. Wilson was standing in front of an ATM, talking on his cell phone, and looking very tired. Greg stopped, and stood near, but not directly next to him. "Jimmy I hafta—" he cut himself off, instantly. His friend had both hands pressed against the machine. He looked angry, sad, and frustrated. "What's wrong?"

"My bank accounts have been frozen, as part of a police investigation." He sighed, putting his wallet away, and running the back of his hand across his lips, moving it back and froth.

"Well, you-they can't hold onto your money forever," he offered, trying to smile, and look strong, or happy or whatever he was supposed to feel instead of being in too much pain to function, and too scared to really talk.

"No, just until I agree to help them put you in prison for ten years.' House raised his eyes desperately. _Look at me. See. See what he did before you give up on me completely! _Wilson either didn't notice or didn't care. "You're paying for dinner," he instructed. Greg agreed, and went with him to their favorite pizza place. Once again James failed to recognize his friend's loss of appetite, his edginess, increasing physical pain, and his not wanting to be touched.

"What the Hell are you doing, Greg?" Wilson asked, less than gently.

"Keeping my head down, and my mouth shut like a good little boy," he murmured, without really meaning too. _Crap, I didn't want to say that. Oh well, at least now he'll know and he'll help me. _Wilson looked on, lovingly, carefully, as if to say _its okay you can talk to me._ "Promise me that no matter how pissed off you get, you wont hand me over to the cop. He's—not a good person." House stared across the room, puling apart his pizza, to make it look like he'd eaten more than he actually had.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the other doctor told him, a whole lot less kindly than he had been even a few minutes earlier. _He won't believe me. I better stop right now, instead of saying something stupid. _"So he's a bad guy. He's, like, out there forging prescriptions, stealing drugs? Something like that?' House gulped again. _What is the matter with you Jimmy? How can you not realize how fucked up I am._

"No he's doing…other stuff. You have to take my word for it that he's one big, sadistic, dick."

"Oh cut it out. You think that _I'm _going to feel sorry for you? Stop acting like a two-year-old and fess up. Make you can work out some kind of a deal, get into a program or—" House stood up before he could finished, dropped some cash on the table, flipped him off and left Wilson sitting there, alone and confused. Then, he drove home, where he sat on the sofa, unable to fall asleep. Eventually he changed clothes, opened the little brown box, stared into it for over an hour, put it away, chewed one of his few remaining Vicodin and headed back to the hospital.

XXXX

Dr. House arrived at work looking a hundred times more disheveled, dirty, and in more pain than anyone had ever seen him. Unfortunately, every person who noticed his change in appearance and behavior also knew that the man was going through a slow detox, and attributed everything to that. The only person who knew what was happening to him was Chase, and Chase couldn't help. Of course he had another patient—the last thing in the world he needed—but he dealt with the situation, dismissed his ducklings, sat down at his desk, and focused all his energy on not vomiting.

"If you leave right now, I won't can your ass," he said into the wood, but Robert knew the comment was directed at him. "Okay maybe I wasn't making myself clear—what are those?" he asked, staring up at the little orange life-preserver that his employee was holding.

"It's only Valium, but…at this point I don't it makes much of a difference," the blonde boy explained. "They're mine, but I've—I only need 'em once in a while. So I can spare a few."

"I can't take these. I—you, could. You're worried about what Tritter is gonna do to me, but haven't even, if he finds out you gave me those, you'll go to jail, and…I can't believe I'm talking like this, but. I'm old and... You're pretty. They'd…I'll find a way to deal, but you…I can't do that. See, I'm only about half as evil as everybody thinks. Thanks or, whatever." His eyes were underlined by two dark black crescents.

"You're not really going to fire me are you?" Chase asked, but he didn't sound desperate so much as curious. _He really is a sweet kid, maybe when I get out of prison I'll break up with Jimmy and live with him. He'll at least—do something. He understands what it's like. Even if I tell, Wilson would barely understand._

"Not as long as you keep your mouth shut. Listen, Chase, don't go yet. You, uh—probably already know this, but if you leave the TV on all night, tends to help with…sleeping problems." Robert nodded, and left.

Some time passed. House pretended to be asleep at his desk. When there heard a knock on his door, he groaned, and said, "I thought I told you to go away and leave me alone." He lifted his face to see what was wrong this time. "Oh, it's you."

"We have to talk," Wilson explained, angrily. House tried to physically brace himself for an attack. "Did you just jump?" No response. "Tritter had my car towed and my prescription licensee pulled." _See, I told you; he's a bully!_

"Well, that's okay; most of your cancer drugs don't work that well anyway." _Please read between the lines, I'm so scared, all the time. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I'm loosing what is left of my sanity. _"And…my pills. What about—who's gonna prescribe my Vicodin?"

"That's why I'm here; obviously this is a catastrophe for you." _Go to Hell! Kick him, beat him over the head. Pull down your pants and show him the bruises on your hips! He can't refute that!_ "I need to borrow your team to do all my prescribing.

"I hafta show you something," he said, forcing himself to stand up, unbuttoning his jeans. If Wilson was mad before, he went berserk when Greg did this.

"I am so not in the mood for that right now! I swear to God, House. If you don't shut up and leave me alone, I'm going to march downstairs and tell Tritter exactly what he wants to hear."

"You can have Cameron," he suggested, trying to stop himself before he said something he couldn't take back. "And Jimmy…I'm sorry. I didn't want any of this to happen."

"Shut up." A door slammed, and that was all he let himself remember.

Over the next couple of days things got progressively worse, especially the pain in his leg and shoulder. Wilson wasn't speaking to him. All three ducklings refused to write him prescriptions. He was in major trouble. So, he went to Cuddy, and she told him that the fact that he needed to go to her for the pills meant he couldn't intimidate his employees which was a good thing because it showed Tritter, actually he wasn't sure what she said about that…he wasn't really paying that much attention. All he cared about was her handing the slip of paper. Unfortunately his arm was inflamed, sore and he could barely move it.

"What's up with that?" she wondered, sweetly. He made a joke. "You feel guilty about what's happening to Wilson. That's a good thing. It means your shoulder is human. The rest of you can't be very far off." He made sure he was out of her office before responding.

"Shows how much you know Boobs McGee. My shoulder hurts because it's broken. Tritter hit me with a Billy club, and then he assaulted me. In any normal world my friends would be filling my body full of Dilaudid, and telling me that it wasn't my fault," he said to his empty office.

His arm got to the point where it was bothering him so much, House even went to see a physical therapist, which only made the pain worse. She actually tortured him, gave him an embarrassingly hideous new cane, and forced him to put his right arm into a sling. She claimed he'd do better if he used the cane on the proper side. _Stupid, fucking idiot, _he mumbled as he left.

XXXXX

He solved the case, but no one seemed to care. Wilson tried to bother him while he and the team were brainstorming. He had paitents. Greg claimed to need Cameron, even though she wasn't all that useful. He was just irritated because Jimmy wasn't talking to him except when he needed something, namely a duckling to prescribe chemo drugs for his real paitents. Greg decided that if he didn't tell his friend the truth soon he'd lose him forever.

"What are you doing?" he asked, watching as the younger man filled envelopes, and sealed them. "Cameron's free now. You can use her all you want. For whatever you want. Come on, that was funny." Greg sat as far away from the desk as he could without leaving the room.

"I'm shutting down my practice. These are referrals for all my paitents," he explained grimly. _No, no, no, no, no, no! Jimmy, look. See what's happening to me._ _ Please. I need you! I need you so bad._

"Oh, good. I was worried you might over react and do something stupid." _What are you doing_, his mind screamed. _He's clearly gone off the deep end. Don't taunt him, just say the words. Tritter attacked me. Tritter broke my arm. Don't pussyfoot around it this time either. _"Jimmy I've got—"

"My patients need a doctor. I can't tell the cancer to wait because Doctor Cameron's boss says she can't come outside and play." He wasn't yelling—_yet, _House told himself, _it's only a matter of time_—but things were getting bad. Greg tried to prepare himself for what was going to happen next, but he never thought it would get this bad. They argued. He fought to keep from losing control, but ever since he was arrested—he couldn't tell if it was the attack or the withdrawal causing it—his tempter had grown shorter and shorter. He was defensive, and started yelling, but Wilson was pissed too and he needed somebody to take his anger out on. James's face turned red. He grew short of breath. He raised his hands in the air and shouted, "You committed a crime; do something!"

"What do you want me to do?" Greg worked hard to keep from shaking. It was too late. Nobody could save him. He _was_ going to prison. Wilson _would_ talk to the cop. And that would be it. He would spend the next ten years getting the crap kicked out of his pathetic, crippled ass, and…well, he couldn't think about that part. Maybe he could fake a total mental break down—it wouldn't be much of a stretch—spend the first few months in the jail ward of some hospital where—at least—he'd be given tranquilizers. Maybe. And even if they didn't give him any meds he'd still get to sleep in a real bed, with nurses, and orderlies, and guards to keep the monsters away. Jimmy was telling him something like, go to the cops, show some remorse, maybe you'll get a deal. _Yeah, right. Tritter knows me. If I confess any chance of doing anything to protect myself flies out the window. I'm sticking to my insanity defense. _Now Jimmy was going on about his "mysterious shoulder pain" being caused by guilt, and how that used to be enough. _No, not happening,_ he thought.

"I am not going to let _you_ make _me_ feel guilty about what Tritter is doing to _us_," he snapped barely covering up the tremors in his hands. "Please Jimmy, don't," he stammered. "Don't do this. I need you."

"Get out of here, House. Get out of here," he demanded, doing the thing with his arms again. The other man nodded, stood up, walked over to his "friend's" desk, stopped, looked at him sadly, helplessly, but got no reaction, and left. Greg sat in his own office, staring at the wall for hours, holding back tears, and debating whether or not he should do what Jimmy said and hand himself over to the psycho cop.

Some time later he was driving home on his bike when he saw Wilson sitting by himself at a bus-stop. He slowed to a stop, and stared. _Say you're sorry, and he might believe you. Tell him what the cop did, and he might listen._. He searched James's eyes carefully but saw nothing to suggest their friendship could be saved, and drove off.

As bad as things had been the past couple of weeks, as hurt as he had been, as awful as he'd felt, as much pain as he had experienced, that night was the worst he'd had in years, perhaps even the worst night of his life. He spent hours feeling like crap, considering suicide, among other things. House got out his beige box, opened it, gave himself a couple milliliters of morphine, and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning on the sofa, falling asleep, having horrific, unimaginably horrible nightmares, waking up, crying, watching TV, and begrudgingly falling back asleep.


	4. Life and Death

Days seventeen through twenty

Wilson's quitting had both positive and negative effects on his friend's life. The good thing was that he was no longer there lecturing, yelling at House, or telling him how badly he was behaving. Unfortunately, before all of this started, he never realized how much he relied on Jimmy for things. He used to go to the other doctor for advice on his cases, as well as his personal life. Sometimes he just needed to be physically close to someone he didn't completely hate, staring out over the parking lot, trying to work up the courage to tell him all the things he'd never been able to tell anybody about, but desperately needed to. He actually missed the man, and Jimmy didn't even care—Greg wasn't sure which one of those hurt worse. Maybe neither of them was the most painful. It was possible that Jimmy would still turn him over to Tritter, to get his car and money and his real patients back. Then he'd have nothing. Over the next few days things at the hospital got progressively worse. Cameron, Cuddy, Foreman, and even Chase all had to lecture him about Wilson.

"It's not my fault," he said only in the last situation, standing in such a way so that he couldn't possibly be touched. "I'm not the one who—this is just the way Jimmy does things. Remember when Vogler took him off the transplant committee?? He was ready to quit back then too, over _nothing_.

"I'm not talking to the cop. I'm barely okay being in the same room as him. Even if there are other people around. I'm not gonna say anything to him. You don't have to worry about me," Robert explained, playing with his hair a little, and then putting his hand on top of his boss's shoulder.

"I told you before, don't touch me!" House instructed, yanking out of his grasp. "I'm out of Vicodin. Gotta go talk to Cuddy. At least she still loves me." He was wrong about that one too, of course. In her office Lisa handed him a paper cup, with two pills in it. "What's this?"

"No more free floating prescriptions. My head of oncology had to shut down. Every doctor in his hospital is afraid to make a move without covering their ass!" she preached, standing far to close for comfort.

"Don't you think maybe you're yelling at the wrong person?" Greg asked, carefully gathering his courage to speak so it wouldn't crack; so he wouldn't sound pathetic. _And maybe covering their asses is a smart move. Wish I had thought of that._ Greg took his pills, left the office, and went upstairs to deal with his patient, but—naturally—his team wasn't interested. When he asked why, Eric was the only one to respond.

XX

"Tritter froze my bank accounts. They're on hold checking to see if he did the same to them." House sighed, internally kicking himself. "You've have got to talk to the cop, now," he ordered.

"Yeah, obviously the man's open to reason," Case gripped. _Well, he's right; Tritter's not a reasonable person. If I go into that office, I don't think I'm coming back out alive._ Cameron's bank accounts had been frozen, but not Chase's. If he didn't know better Greg would be suspicious, but he understood that his knew little buddy as the last person who'd ever consider talking to the psycho cop.

"Call Wilson's lawyer," he explained, taking the cell phone away from the blonde boy, and shutting it. "He'll tell you exactly how and why you're screwed." Finally the conversation turned back to the case. The little girl needed to have her gallbladder removed. As he'd come t expect over the past few weeks, it wasn't that simple. Nothing was.

XXX

The girl's mother wouldn't give consent to the surgery. He had to go to family court where he dealt with an obnoxious judge who agreed to give custody to the father. He told Cuddy he needed more pills. She wasn't falling for it.

"You are on a reasonable dose of pain medication," she explained even more obnoxiously, and in a far ruder tone than she had needed to use. _No, I'm not_.

"But I hurt in unreasonable ways," House insisted. It was true. His pain was way worse than anybody ever could imagine, and he was terrified, and upset, which made the pain worse. "What does that even mean, reasonable dose?"

"If you want more Vicodin, dip into your secret stash." _House is it that not one single person has noticed how seriously fucked up I am,_ he wondered. _I am not this miserable of an ass all the time, am I?_

"Tritter took it, he muttered. _Among other things, including but not limited to my only friend, my comfort, my safety, and the last remaining shreds of my dignity. _

"Then dip into your secret, secret stash." _Crap, how does she know about that? Well I mean, it uh—Jeeze, it's actually easier to talk to Chase than deal with her stupid, obnoxious crap._

"I used it all up," _and I'm running low on morphine. Well, I' m not, but that's my emergency stash. Can't really work on it, and if I use it regularly people are gonna figure out that I'm not detoxing, and it won't mater if Jimmy testifies about the forged scripts or whatever. _House's eyes were empty. He felt nothing except for pain. Why didn't people notice what was happening to him, and what had he done that was so terrible to make him deserve this?

"Then dip into your secret, secret, secret stash!" He wasn't going to get any sympathy from Lisa, so went upstairs—with no interest in the case—and found the bottle. His case had to complain about this too, as always. So House put the pill away, for now, and dismissed the ducklings, having figured out what was wrong—he thought—and rubbed some dust on his gums to take the edge off. That was right around the time he head Wilson was still hanging around the hospital. _Maybe I've still got a chance to explain what happened, get him to help. Maybe._

XXXX

"What are you doing here?" he asked, plopping down on the sofa in the break room, his feet carefully laid out as comfortably as possible. He still wasn't sure how to bring it up. The last few times he'd tried to tell Jimmy what had been done to him, House either got yelled at or lectured, or worse. And that was only a few days after he was attacked. Now, his bruises had faded, his arm was—for the most part—fine, and any DNA evidence had long since washed away. If only he was emotionally numb… If he didn't care, or couldn't/ didn't feel anything then Tritter's little looks and 'accidental' touches wouldn't mean anything. The psycho cop wouldn't be able to bother him, and even the possibility of going to prison, or being assaulted wouldn't be so bad. "I thought you quit."

"I still have clinic hours," he said, going on and on about his own problems, and then lecturing him. He started saying stuff about Lenny Bruce, drug addiction, over doses, and challenging the police.

"I didn't challenge the police. I challenged one cop, and he started it!" _He escalated things too! He raped me!_ "Jimmy, please, this is important. I have got to talk to you," House begged.

"I don't want to hear any of this," he ordered. "We are not—I'm not speaking to you right now, and you should also know that I'm not listening. I don't care if you tell me that the cop's the reincarnation of Adolph Hitler, and you have undeniable proof, understand?"

"I understand tat you're a puissant little bitch!" he shouted, turning back to his typical, annoying self. It didn't really matter. There was no way he'd ever convince the almighty James Wilson that he was the innocent one in all of this. He might as well fire off a couple of good insults before Jimmy told him that he was worthless and deserved what was happening, all of it. "You passive-aggressively gave up your practice, and now you're passive-aggressively spreading peanut butter with a big sign around your neck that says Wilson doesn't have enough money for the cafeteria!" Chase raced into the room before Jimmy was able to respond.

"House, you have to come see this. The scratch test is starting to get results. A lot of them" he explained. House grabbed half the sandwich, watched Wilson's face for a reaction, and limped out of the room. He was tired. He was in pain. He was nauseated. He was slowly dying up, and nobody seemed to give a damn.

XXXXX

There was no doubt in his mind that something had gone wrong with the allergy test, but it wasn't allergies. Sadly, there would be no convincing the team, the girl's parents, and in this case Cuddy. They went back to work. Se gave him _two_ pills. She also put the little girl on the wrong antibiotics, and the kid got worse. He was actually starting to think his team could be right. It was possible for him to screw up. That was not unheard of, or impossible, but the opposite could also be true. It was just as likely that Cuddy as wrong and he right.

Soon there were rumors about Chase and the cop. He didn't want to believe it. He agreed with the kid, the cop was trying to scare him into action, that Tritter could read Robert the same way he'd read House. He was starting to feel pretty paranoid and didn't like some of the thoughts floating through his mind. Either somebody _had_ turned on him and he was screwed, or they haven't done it yet, but would, in which case he was well…screwed. Greg played with the laser pointer. He turned it on, flashed the little red light on Wilson's back. _Come on, pay attention to me, I'm staring to get desperate. If I don't have something good happen to me pretty soon, I might blow my brains out, save everyone the trouble_.

"House," I have to talk to you, Chase said, nervously, approaching him in the hallway, looking at him like a whipped puppy. Not that he was all too surprised. Rowan Chase was a bit of a bastard, and then add he fact that the he left home when Bobby was little, and that the kid was molested. He was a whipped puppy, if Greg had ever seen one…_I am too, _he thought. "I didn't talk to Tritter. I want you to know that," he explained. "I swear."

"Don't really give a crap," he snorted. House pursed his lips. "I know what this is about. Either you tattled and want absolution or you didn't and want me to tell you what a good, widdle koala you are. Either way, it's not going to happen." Chase nodded, walking away, grimly, then turned around and came back.

"He said tat he did the thing with Foreman and Cameron's bank account so you'd think I squealed, and fire me, force me to go and talk to him. I—um—I'm kind of a little bit afraid right not. A lot afraid actually."

"Then go tell Cameron, and cry in her boobies," Greg snickered, rubbing his arm. It didn't hurt all that badly. He knew that everybody knew he fidgeted with his chin, and beard when he was nervous, and didn't want people to realize he was scared too. "You still got those Benzos?" Chase nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a Kleenex, dropping it into House's hand. The brilliant doctor picked up the thing, pretending to blow his nose, letting the pills drop into his hands, then fake yawing so he could pop them into his mouth. "Don't worry, Tritter's got me, he's going to leave you alone." Robert stared at him oddly. "I only meant that he's so focuses on putting me in jail he's too busy to actually hurt anybody." Robert didn't buy it. "I uh—I can't believe I'm telling you about this. He didn't take me right to the police station the night I was arrested. It's nothing. Well, I mean, I thought it was nothing. I figured he'd have given up by now, guy got what he wanted. Why's he still going after me wit both barrels?"

"I don't know, but you have to tell somebody."

"I tried."

"You never told me what happened that night, but I always assumed it was…that you were just afraid of him, because he's scary. House, this is a big deal. I can't help you, but the police, Wilson, Cuddy, your lawyer; one of them has got to be able to do something. They'll know how," Chase offered, pressing is hand against the older man's shoulder. Once again Greg ripped his body away.

"I told you to keep your fucking hands off me," he shouted, pushing him. "I pretty much just proved your point, didn't I?" House rubbed his chin. "I tried to tell Jimmy, but he doesn't care. He _hates_ me."

"No, he doesn't. Dr. Wilson doesn't—can't understand why you're acting like this. If you don't talk to him about what Tritter did, what you've been through pretty soon, though he might. It is possible you could lose him. Listen, there is a right way and a wrong way to tell somebody about this. Don't be rude. Don't be sarcastic. Just say, 'Tritter attacked me.'"

"I tried that! He says he's not speaking or listening to me." Chase moved as if to hug him. "Keep your goddamn hands to yourself, unless you want me to throw you off of the roof!"

"I didn't say anything to the cop." Kid probably wanted a pat on the back or a hug r something else House couldn't give him, but he was also afraid of losing his job, getting hit, or something—_else_. Greg decided to throw him a bone.

"I know. You want my attention, or affection, or praise, or whatever. I represent your dad. All he did was ignore you. Tritter represents…well _his_ approval wouldn't mean anything."

"By the way, I'd most likely survive a fall from the roof. It's only six stories high. Might break my neck, but the emergency room is right there, I'd be back at work in a couple of months."

"They wouldn't let a quadriplegic practice medicine." House had that bizarre—I have an idea—expression on his face. "Hey, wait a second. Do you think they would put one in prison?"

"I have no idea; you should probably ask a lawyer."

"My lawyer's an idiot. First time I met him the guy told me to take a deal. This is _before_ they thought I'd forged the scripts. Before Jimmy decided to hate me, before anybody had any proof of anything illegal."

"Don't you have a living will? Knowing you it's going to be fairly specific, saying you wouldn't want to be kept alive under conditions a, b, or c." Chase was right. He would never want to be kept on a ventilator, his brain mush, unable to even open his eyes. If he did things right, landed perfectly, he'd crack his head open, and they'd have to scrape his brains off the sidewalk. _Wonder if I could time it so I land on Jimmy's car, right in front of him. Then we'll see who doesn't give a crap about me._

"Yeah, because people always listen when I say I want or don't want something done to my body," he admitted sulkily before heading back to his office to be alone for a while. He got all of five minutes peace.

XXXXXX

"If you're here to get the sandwich back, you're going to have to wrestle it away from a dying six-year-old," he said, without raising his eyes from his desk. Greg couldn't handle looking at Jimmy right now. "Maybe you wouldn't feel bad about that one either though."

"Do you even feel bad about any of this? Are you sorry at all?" Wilson was using _that_ voice. "This is important, House. We have to talk. You were right about that much." Greg said nothing, looking away. "Do you regret anything?" _I was defending myself. I had to I knew he was gonna hurt me, Jimmy. I knew it the minute I walked into the room. You have to believe me_.

"Yeah," he snorted. "Wish I had gone with my original instincts and given the guy a colonoscopy." James shook his head, disgusted. "Wilson, wait. Tritter hit me," Greg blurted out, but knew it had been a mistake the instant the words came out of his mouth.

"What?" Wilson did the thing with his hand and his lips, but House knew he would never ever believe it. He'd gone out on a limb, and told his best friend, his only friend, the truth and the guy thought he was full of shit. "Why would you say something like that?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't believe me, and I'd rather get the lecture about lying than whatever you really wanna tell me about." He didn't even bother. Jimmy walked away, and went back to giving him the silent treatment. As the day wore on every bit of strength, and patience Greg had was sucked out of him, until he was erupted, screaming at steam about the case. Only it wasn't really about the case.

"Right!! She's six! She's cute! She can't have flesh-eating bacteria! It's just wrong! Let's cure her with sunshine and puppies! Cute kids die of terrible illnesses! Innocent doctors go to jail, just because cowards like you won't stand up and do what's required! You can sit around and moan about who's the bigger weakling!" Tired, scared, in pain, and desperately in need of a private, quiet place, he broke into Wilson's office after talking to Alice's parents. He closed and locked the door, shut the blinds, and curled up on the sofa in the dark. Greg cried for a while before falling into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. He wasn't sure exactly how long he had been out for, but when he woke up he, as was becoming the norm, he felt worse than ever.

Before the 'nap' House had been in denial, unable to comprehend that Jimmy didn't believe he had been assaulted, but now… He stepped out into the hallway, and was instantly accosted by Chase. He barely understood the words coming out of his employee's mouth, and tried to get away from him, but Robert wouldn't let it go. He even went as far as to grab House by the shoulder.

"Don't touch me," he whispered. Chase refused. "I told you to keep your hands to yourself. You'd better let go, real quick, or I'm gonna club you." He had some ridicules solution to the case, but house didn't want to listen. His heart was racing, teeth chattered, stomach back flipped, sweat trickling down his face. "Let go," he demanded, weakly. Blonde boy pushed harder. He balled up a fist, swung, and struck the younger doctor square in the jaw. Bobby stumbled backwards, tripped, and landed on his ass, staring up at Greg with that sad, baby-face. He saw himself in that expression. He'd gone from victim to victimizer in less than a second. "Sorry," he whispered in a way so that nobody could hear, but the boy. "Erythropoietic protoporphyria was a stupid diagnosis. Liver's shot too, how do you explain that? She swallow a flashlight?"

"Light damages the blood cells. The damaged blood cells contain protoporphyrin. The protoporphyrin builds up in the liver. That's why the liver's shutting down." Greg stared at Chase for a long time.

"Whatever," was his only reply. They stopped the surgery, saved the kid, and he went home.

XXXXXXX

House turned on the television, then went to Steve McQueen's cage. "Eat," he ordered. The rodent squeaked, standing on his hind legs, front paws pressed up against the metallic bars. "That food's been sitting there for two days. In two more you'll be dead. Eat." House sighed, and took the animal out, carrying him to the sofa, and sitting with it in is lap. "You're gonna have to get used to weird smelling food. Pretty soon I'm not gonna be here anymore. Wilson, or Chase, or Cuddy, or Cameron is gonna be feeding you. The average lifespan of a rat…when I get out, I won't have anybody. Wilson hates me. Chase is terrified, and you'll be dead. Being in this place alone sucks, assuming somebody keeps on paying my rent, doesn't sell my stuff," he muttered. "One of them is gonna go to the cop. Soon. Just not sure who it'll be."

Steve watched his owner uncomprehendingly, and House laughed. "Guess insanity is even less of a stretch than I thought. I'd go buy a gun and shoot myself, but I can't, legally, I'm being investigated, background check would show that. And if I get it on the street, Tritter's bound to find out, burst in here, stop my suicide attempt and tack on even more time to my sentence. Pills are out 'cuz the cops took 'em. Can't inject myself with a lethal dose of morphine, I'd just pass out. Nowhere to hang myself from, not to mention I'm trying to avoid pain, which rules out suffocation, electrocution, although I'm more afraid to screw that one up than die a long painful death, and poison. I could slit my wrists, but…I'm just not that kind of person. Well, I am, but I don't want that to be—well for one it hurts, takes a while, and I could be—someone might find and stop me. If Jimmy cares enough to even come by and see me anymore." His voice dropped off slightly. "I could nick a major artery, bleed out but…I dunno. If you take too much of anything it can be fatal, even water, but in the end, I don't have the guts to kill myself. I'm too afraid of all of them," he explained, before putting the rat away, and laying down on the sofa, curled up around a pillow, trying not to the sofa.


	5. The Truth Shall Set You Free

AN: so I was originally going to make it so that House never told anyone what happened, and have things ride out the way they did on the show, but I decided that he needed more help, so sorry if this chapter feels like a bit of a cop out.

Christmas Day

"Not guilty,

for getting in your way,

while you're trying to steal the day.

Not guilty,

and I'm not before the rest,

I'm not trying to steal your vest.

I haven't time to be smart;

I only want what I can get," George Harrison.

"Get the fuck out of my office, _now_,' House ordered, hands trembling, heart from beating so loudly that everyone in the room was probably able to hear it. He stuffed his hands in his pocket. Wilson was playing with his mouth so much that Greg knew what he was going to say, even before he said it. _He told the cop. Looks like I underestimated how much he hates me. _

"I don't think that is gong to happen," Tritter explained, sitting down in _his_ chair. _Great, _he thought, _now I hafta burn that_. "Merry Christmas," he said, far from cheerfully.

"And a happy go to Hell. Now get out of my office or you're gonna have to add beating the crap out of a police officer to my list of 'offenses.'" The psycho cop had that look in his eyes again.

"I told Tritter I didn't write those prescriptions," Wilson admitted, preparing to get hit. House had been waiting for this since the moment they had taken away his pills, and yet nothing could have prepared him for the pain he felt. His heart actually sank. He couldn't believe how much this betrayal hurt. "We worked out a deal. If you agree to go to rehab, then you don't have to serve any time, and you'll get to keep your medical license!" The cop stood up, took a couple of steps across the room, patted him on the no longer busted shoulder, and smiled. He leaned in, whispering in Greg's ear, "You're ass is mine no matter what you chose. At least in prison you'll be able to get high; won't be Vicodin, but…"

"Get out of my office," he said, pushing the giant away with both hands. Tritter turned around informed him that the deal expired in 72 hours, while Wilson looked like someone had punched him in the gut. "You didn't actually think I'd agree to that, did you?"

"House, you get keep your job, no jail time," he offered, like he was actually doing House a favor by handing him over to the cop. "This is a good thing. Why wouldn't you…there's no way out of this one."

"So I should let myself get locked up someplace I don't belong, to avoid getting locked up somewhere else I don't belong," he spat, hatefully. "I know I did a bad thing, but Tritter's a sadistic monster." Wilson watched him dumbfounded. "I'm not making this up. He really did hit me. You gotta believe."

"Even if he had touched or hit you, and I'm not saying that he did, I'm sure he wasn't. He probably did whatever it was on accident, and you overreacted because of what happened when you were a kid." _I can't believe you just said that. I almost wish there was a god, gotta be a special punishment for telling a rape victim they overacted to being attacked._ Greg whimpered, letting himself relax.

"Are you saying I deserved it? Jimmy, he…he…" Greg changed tactics. "Get out of here," he shouted, and limped away as quickly as possible. Wilson followed him, lecturing, again. _What happened to not talking to me?_ "Look, there's Jesus; go tell the Romans!"

"Why are you being so hostile about this?" Wilson demanded, grabbing his ex-best friend—House's decision—by the arms, and staring into his eyes. "You can still have pain meds in rehab." He let go.

"They don't work." _And he's gonna attack me again and again and again! HELP! Please Wilson, I need you to see what's happening because my time is—I don't know what I'm gonna do if things keep going like this._

"They will once you've been weaned off the Vicodin. You're just afraid of the pain."

"And you're not?" he asked, brandishing the cane, preparing the beat the crap out of the guy. Jimmy sighed, reaching for House's free hand. Greg pulled away from him. "Don't touch me."

"I had to do this. You didn't give me any other choice," Wilson explained, trying to be gentle, but what he really wanted to do was grab House, tie him up, and drag him to a facility.

"You are the one who's supposed to protect me from people like that! I was attacked. Tritter hurt me, and you don't even care! You don't—you're just…Do you even give a crap, or are you just that pissed about your precious tumor-riddled patients?"

'What, what are you talking about? Are you so emotionally confused that you think of what he's doing as a physical assault? You're—just stop it okay? I did this for you. They have every right to take away your pills and your license, and throw you in prison. Do you know how lucky you are to have me looking out for you?"

"Are you even listening to me? I was…oh forget it." House stormed off as best he could, and went to see Cuddy for his pills. She gave him two again. He considered holding on to the meds, waiting for her to dole out enough to constitute a lethal dose.

XX

Unfortunately, while he was dealing with her, he got himself another problem. He ran into a patient that desperately needed his help. So he took the case, and went upstairs. Chase's chin was still covered in a giant bruise, and he wasn't making much eye contact. "You should get that looked at."

"I'm fine," he said, but there was nothing in his voice to suggest that he actually felt this way, or that he would ever be able to trust or care about House again. He waited the other team members to leave before approaching the baby doc. "I told you, it's nothing." Greg reached out, gently, to touch it. The younger man winced.

"I'm sorry. I overreacted to…I should have done that," he admitted. "I was just tired and scared, and in pain, and Wilson told me that—I told him that Tritter hit me, he didn't believe it. He acted like…now I know why the guy…I'm screwed, aren't I?"

"Even if you don't really want to…a suicide attempt could get you locked up on a 72 hour hold, and right after that, well it'll give you some time to talk to someone, prove your still a danger to yourself, and they won't be able to—" House cut him off.

"I already thought about that. Listen, Robert, I am sorry for—you know, punching you. I'm so. I'm in big trouble here, and it's not… Will you feed my rat while I'm in prison?" Chase looked up at him as if he were speaking some alien language. "Wilson hates me. And after what he did, no way I'm letting him near Steve."

"So…you should take the deal, House. After you get out of rehab, I'll write the prescriptions. That way you don't have to deal with Wilson ever again. It's going to be pretty bad either way, but at least going to one of those places is just for a few months." The older man shook his head. The younger man tried to comfort him, but he pulled away. "I've still got a bunch of my pills, if you need them."

"I'm okay. Did you just—I think I had. Did you offer to give me Vicodin if I go to rehab?" he asked nervously. Chase nodded. "The cop is gonna be keeping an eye on me for—a long time. I—you'll get into trouble."

"You're in pain. I can't believe you're still here, working. Between what Tritter did to you, the physical pain, and the detox symptoms." Robert shook his head. "If you go to prison I'll sneak them in to you."

"No," House insisted firmly, angrily. "I'll fire you before you get the chance. Listen, Chase, I know you feel bad for me because my life sucks right now, but you can't put yourself in his line of fire just to get me high."

"I was going to do it to give a sick man his medication, and why shouldn't I? Because you aren't worth it? Because if we let the cop win this battle he'll leave us alone? Guys like that don't just go away. They never go away. You have to stand up for yourself. You have to fight."

"How? I only told Jimmy that he hit me, and the guy acted like I was insane. Said I overacted to _nothing_. You believe it, but you can't do anything. Wilson hates me. That's why he told the cop. I'm not half as important as his car or his money, or his real patients. That's just the way things work. That's just life. In the end nobody likes anybody. Everybody gets sick of you. Everybody leaves." Chase did his best say something that would prove otherwise, but it didn't really matter. Nothing was going to House's mind. Cuddy came in, basically fired Greg, and cut off his Vicodin.

XXX

Several hours later, alone in his apartment, after being forced out of his office, and the Trenton hospital, House lay at the sofa, staring at the ceiling. The volume on the stereo was turned most of the way up, as he tried to focus on the hurt in his heart rather than the pain in his leg. He almost slammed his hand in the car door, but didn't think that anybody would give him pain meds even if he came into the ER having removed the appendage with a carving knife.

Some one knocked on the door to his apartment. He recognized the sound. That was Wilson's knock. _Jimmy's here_. "Go away," he cried. Wilson used his key, and burst in. He walked to the sofa and sat down on the armrest.

"What are you doing," he asked, unable to ignore the music, but also unsure as to its importance. George Harrison was singing some tune he didn't recognize.

"Being a good boy, and keeping my head down," Greg responded tiredly. _I didn't say that,_ he thought. Using a remote he turned the volume on the stereo up. There was an odd look in Greg's eyes, one Wilson couldn't quite place. He touched the side of his friend's face. The cripple pushed it away, weakly.

"Are you stoned?" If he wasn't slowly dying, House would have beaten the crap out of Jimmy. Instead, all he was physically capable of was making a pathetic looking face. "Take the deal and when you get out, you can have your pills back. Come on. Doesn't that sound better than jail?" He grunted, trying to focus on not vomiting all over the traitor, while at the same time didn't, couldn't, understand why he still gave a crap. Wilson deserved to be puked on, yelled at, beaten with a lit stick of dynamite, and then some.

"I don't believe you," he hated to admit. He wasn't sure he would believe anything Wilson said ever again. Of course Jimmy hadn't known that he was handing the sad, pathetic, little boy over to a psycho, rapist. He would rather go to jail where he could swallow, snort, and inject whatever he could get his hands on, than be sick and detoxing and crying into his pillow while Tritter fucked him whenever he felt like it.

"I had a feeling you'd say that, which is why I brought these." Jimmy reached into his jacket, pulling out a little orange bottle. _What's the catch, _House wondered. The oncologist shook it gently. "They're real; I wouldn't give you sugar pills, or a tranquilizer to knock you out and then drag your unconscious body to the car, and drive to—sorry, I just wanted to…"

"But I have to agree to take the deal before you give them to me, right?" Jimmy played with his mouth. "Get out, or I'm gonna stop trying not to throw up in your mouth. Wilson sighed, but walked to the door anyway. _Asshole, _he thought. _How could you just leave me here?_

XXXX

"Jimmy, wait!" he screamed, touching his sweat soaked hair, and taking a deep breath. This was his last chance; he might as well take it. "I'm not confused." His friend stared, obviously Jimmy was. "Tritter really did _attack_ me. The night I was arrested, he took me to this sleazy, disgusting motel, and then…" he stammered. "That's why I've been acting so—he, I can't say it. I just. This is…" Wilson stared for a long time, fingering his lip before closing the door and stepping back into the apartment.

"If this," he stammered, nervously. "I've been. That is, I always thought I knew you, but then I found out you forged prescriptions, and now I don't know what you're capable of anymore. If you're lying to me to get me to…God what am I saying? Even you wouldn't claim to have been—but then again, I thought that…" Wilson stared at the floor, ashamed. Greg let out a soft, sad sound, and promptly heaved all over himself. "Oh, crap," Wilson cried, handing over the Vicodin, and letting the pills kick in before helping Greg to his feet and leading him to the bathroom. "I'm sorry, but I don't. You need a shower, or—something. Do you wanna keep your clothes on, or is it okay if I," he let his voice trail off.

Greg's eyelids fluttered a bit. "When was the last time you slept?" The little boy shrugged. The pills were really starting to kick in, and he let the warm, safe, painlessness wash over him, rocking back and forth slowly. "That's what you've been trying to tell me the last couple of months, isn't it?" Jimmy asked, but House was already too out of it to really respond. "God, that makes so much sense. How could I have been so stupid? This explains everything. I'm sorry, House. I am so incredibly sorry. Just relax okay, and I'm gonna fix this. Everything is gonna be okay."

"Just because you say that, doesn't make it true. Like if I were to say that Steve McQueen is a man-eating lion, doesn't mean he's gonna jump out of his cage and gobble us up. Although it would save me trouble of blowing my brains out. Just because you call it okay, doesn't mean Tritter can't throw me in prison and fuck my brains out, or that—" Suddenly his mind jumped forward, synapses firing, information flooding into his brain.

"You know what's wrong with Abigail, don't you?" he asked. House nodded one quick, tiny movement of his head. "Think—do you need my help getting, cleaned up?" He shrugged, letting Wilson lift the shirt up over his head, and rub a warm, wet washcloth over his face, and torso. "I have a plan." Greg looked up at him. _ Yes? _"I'm gonna take you to the hospital. You're gonna tell your team what's wrong, and then I'm gonna take you upstairs and tell one of the shrinks that you're suicidal. You talk to them about what happened and how you're really feeling. Then, you spend a couple of nights in a slightly uncomfortable bed, with me at your side and anything else you need, until everything gets settled and Tritter is arrested, okay?"

XXXXX

As he was toweling Greg's face and shoulders, Jimmy couldn't help but notice the other man was trembling, on the verge of tears. "I'll be with you the whole time, and I'll take care of you; I promise. I know it seems like getting a room on the fourth floor is the same as getting locked up in some terrible place you don't belong, but this is the only way to—that's not it, I'm way off, aren't I?" House shrugged. "It's okay. You can tell me. I won't get mad. I won't be mad."

"You didn't do this 'cuz you were mad, did you?" a childlike voice cried. "Even when you turned me into the cop, you weren't trying to hurt or betray or whatever me. You were trying to help me, and the cop had you believing that he was like you, that he wanted to help me, and that's all you were trying to do, right?" Jimmy nodded, rising to his feet, one arm around the House's back, the other under his left armpit, slowly lifting the guy up, and helping him to the bedroom. "I probably owe you any apology or something. I was acting like an ass." Wilson shook his head. "No, I wasn't an ass, or no I don't hafta apologize, or something else?"

Wilson didn't know how to tell the other man there was a difference between behaving like an ass, and acting like a person who ad PTSD. Not that House would care. He already had other things on his mind. "You told Tritter I forged those scripts. You talked to the cop, and the D.A; a lot of people know what you said. You can't take that back. No matter what you say, the cops are gonna. They want...why would anyone believe me over _him_?" Jimmy shook his head. "What now?"

"1. I'm gonna tell the cops—the ones who aren't evil, rapist scumbags—that I lied about those prescriptions, because Tritter threatened to hurt you if I didn't give him the answer he wanted. Plus, 2. Once you tell them what that cop did to you, other victims are going to come forward. They are gonna be so busy trying to solve that case, trying to put a serial rapist away that they won't even care about your one minor drug charges, and last, but not least, number 3, my best one. 3. He rapped you _before _he had any evidence that you had done anything wrong. He arrested you so he could assault you, and any evidence they might have found after that is fruit from the poison tree."

"That sounds like something I would say," House said, quietly, gazing up at Wilson who didn't understand the significance of that statement. "You're not really here. I'm hallucinating again, only this time it is way worse, because I actually convinced myself you really came here, and that you brought me Vicodin," he whimpered, letting out a soft sigh.

"House, you and I both know—okay maybe you don't know it—but I know that this is real. I believe what you told me about Tritter. I love you. I am never, ever, ever gonna let anybody hurt you like that again, and I can prove that I'm real." Luckily Wilson knew his friend well enough to understand that the man needed to hear the logic behind his theory. "You took at least four of those pills, almost half an hour ago, which means that right about now your leg shouldn't hurt, and you should be feeling better, and you aren't nearly as nauseated, right?" Greg stared absently at the carpet, pretending he hadn't heard. "You wanna get dressed and go to the hospital or not?" He shrugged, but meant yes. Technically it was a bit more complicated than that. The man had about a million gestures, each small, simple, but unique. There was a plain old ordinary yes, or no, yes; you moron, I don't wanna admit it, but okay, no way in Hell, I'm saying no but I mean yes, I'm saying yes but I mean no, and a couple dozen others. If only Wilson had learned to recognize the new one before this afternoon. Sadly, Greg's _help, I've been sexually assaulted, and am on the road to a total, mental breakdown_ expression looked so much like all of his other faces. "Do you believe me?" House raised his eyes slightly, glancing up, frowning, _I want to, but…_ "What if I—I dunno, Greg. Tell me what to do to prove this to you."

"The last Wilson let me punch him in the mouth, and I'm so screwed up right now, that I convinced myself my hand hurt, 'cuz I did it so hard. I believed him until he started speaking in metaphors and calling everybody on the TV moron. I don't know what I'm supposed to do here, Jimmy."

"Here, let me get you a nice, clean shirt—are you still having chills? Is it, do you...what do you want to wear?" he stammered, fingers moved to the very back of House's head, playing with his hair. "Let's make a deal. If I'm not the real Wilson, when your hallucination is over, I'll go find him, and tell the real guy that I promised to protect you, explain what happened to him, and make Wilson come here and take care of you."

"If you're just a hallucination…how is some stupid figment of my imagination is gonna tell the real Wilson anything?" House asked, curling up on his side, and pulling away from him.

"Because I _am_ the real Wilson, but even if I wasn't, this version of me would be a symbol of your strength, and _he_ would help you work up the nerve to find me, and tell me what was wrong, okay?" Greg shrugged again. _Don't be an idiot,_ he thought. "You think that the real Wilson wouldn't come here and check up on or want to take care of you. You think that he, I, don't care—you're afraid that I hate you, and went to the cops because of that." He sighed, rubbing his mouth. "It was never because I was mad. You had it right a few minutes ago. I was just trying to help, and ended up doing the worst possible thing."

"The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, not that I believe in Hell," the cripple snapped. "And I guess I'm a little cold." Wilson nodded, going through the dresser until he found a dark blue hooded-sweatshirt, and helping House pull it on. "If you're really Wilson, why did you think I needed the pills, or you, or whatever, when you didn't know I had been ra—when you didn't know what he had done to me?" Wilson smiled, kneeling at his friend's feet, putting shoes on. "Answer me."

"Because I found this in the cushions of the couch in my office," Jimmy explained, reaching into his pocket and puling out the piece that had come off of Greg's 8-ball keychain. "I knew you were in my office when I wasn't, on the couch, and since there were no odd smelling stains or used condoms, you weren't having sex in there, which means you wanted—probably needed—a place to escape to, someplace where you could go, to be alone and—whatever. I figured you probably needed me, and these, and that even if I could convince you to take the deal, you wouldn't have to go to rehab right away, and you needed enough to get you through the next few days. I had a bit of a weird feeling about you because of the stuff you said in your office. I love you. And even if you they do try to lock you up, I'll shoot Tritter and get myself put in jail right next to you so I can keep on protecting you forever."

"You just said that I was gonna be in the—that I wouldn't have to go to jail. You said if I told, everything would work out," he screamed, but even Wilson knew that Greg wasn't mad at him. "I don't wanna do this. Telling means talking to more cops, having them pick apart my story, getting yelled at, court dates, testifying, being forced to sit in that room while he tries to stare me down, and…other stuff. It means talking about what he did more, which means I'll be thinking about it more, which means nightmares, increasing pain, more flashbacks and anxiety attacks. It also means _they_ might not believe me and I could still end up in prison, only now he'll be pissed and nobody will believe me ever again no matter what kind of proof I might have!" House, feeling slightly stronger physically, pushed past Wilson and limped to the sofa so he could lie back down on the couch.

"I thought we were going to the hospital," Wilson pressed into him gently. House's rationalizations rarely made sense, but right now he was scared, and that fear was growing exponentially. He was terrified, refusing to act, but if one or both of them didn't do something (quickly) the cop was going to be able to send Greg away, and there would be no way left to rescue him. "I will not let Tritter send you to prison. I promise, but you don't believe that. How about this one...ok, this is important, are you listening? Good. What he did to you, how he did it; that shows planning, a lot of it, which means that he has done this before. You're a doctor, and while your personality leaves a lot to be desired, if you tell the truth, people will listen. They _will_ believe you. More victims will come forward, and there won't be any doubts. He'll go to prison, and the charges against you are going to be dropped. You get your life back. Then, when you're ready, we come back here and you can go back to ignoring your emotional pain, pretending that none of this ever happened," Jimmy suggested, sitting on the sofa, cradling Greg in his arms. "You still think I'm lying, huh?"' he asked, but House barely responded.

He made a sound that was a combination of a grunt and a whimper. "Because I was furious with you, and now I'm not, right?" He looked away, eyes raised, brow furrowed, _yeah_. "You did something wrong, and you deserved to be punished for it, but when you told me…I came here to talk you into rehab because I thought you were out of control. What happened to you, what you went through, is a hundred, million, billion times worse than what should have been done. I changed my mind. I was always fighting for you. I just did it the wrong way. Now I know better. Come on, let's go to the hospital. I'll get you admitted to psych, and then I'll stay with you while we call the cops and tell them what happened, okay?" Greg did and said nothing. "You will have your pills, under your control again. You get to decide how many to take and when to take them. How about it?" Wilson stood up, walked to the door, and stood, waiting for House to do something.


	6. Wonderful Christmastime

AN: I changed the point of view because the third person thing was driving me batty, plus at this point Wilson sort of comes in and takes over. If you don't like it feel free to complain but I won't change it back.

"But say a prayer,  
pray for the other ones  
At Christmastime it's hard,  
but when you're having fun  
There's a world outside your window,  
and it's a world of dread and fear  
Where the only water flowing  
is the bitter sting of tears  
And the Christmas bells that ring there  
are the clanging chimes of doom  
Well tonight thank God it's them  
instead of you."

Christmas Eve

"Well," I asked, after what felt like hours had passed. He didn't move. If I didn't now that he was practically comatose from the double dose of pills, I'd be worried House had had a heart attack and was lying there dead. "We gonna go or what?"

"I'd rather stay here and blow my brains out," he explained. I moved to the armrest. I put my hand on his forehead. He felt slightly feverish, but I kept my mouth shut about it.

"I know, Pal. When this is all over and he's in prison, would you settle for a combo of Ativan and Morphine?" He shrugged a small, nervous movement. He was basically saying _I wanna say yes but I can't. _"I'll give it to you."

"Why," he managed to ask. The real question, however, was _why in the world would you ever do anything to help me after all I've done? _I smiled gently and gave him my hand to squeeze. He couldn't touch it.

"Because I _love _you; I always have. I'm gonna miss you like crazy, but…I have the power to take away your pain, and since you're gonna off yourself anyway, I might as well see to it that things don't hurt too much, make sure you do it right. I don't have power of attorney, so if you make a mistake, you could end up a vegetable and I'll be powerless to help you. But we have to talk. Not until you're ready, of course. Just…I need to know that this isn't a permanent solution to a temporary problem."

He sighed, looking way, and while Greg didn't reach to push my hand away, I could tell he really wanted to. "Tell me what to do?" He didn't respond, again. I thought about telling him he had an obligation to report this, especially since he had been smart enough to go and get a rape kit, which meant that he had physical proof of what had been done to him. I thought about explaining how this wasn't his fault, no one had the right to hurt him. I thought about letting him go; after everything else that had been done to the poor guy, was it fair of me to expect him to testify against a violent, rapist? I thought about hitting him over the head and dragging his unconscious body back to the hospital against his will. I thought bout t least a million things, but realized that almost all of them involved me forcing him to do something he clearly wasn't ready for. You don't have to answer yet. We've got time. This is your decision."

House, who had been half asleep with his eyes squeezed shut, opened them and looked up at me. Finally, he nodded, silently, his lips pulled tight, eyes fixed upwards in that pitiful expression—the one he used whenever someone yelled at him—made me think he'd made a decision.

"I made my decision," he told me, trying to sound braver than he actually felt. I nodded, slowly lowering my hand to once again stroke his hair. He didn't fight, but I knew he didn't want to be touched, and let go. "I hafta go the hospital," Greg asked, rather than informing me. He had agreed to go originally, so I'd give him the pills, but at this point he wasn't ready to decide what socks he wanted to wear, let alone something this huge.

"No, you don't," I swore, wanting more than anything to touch or hold or kiss him, but knowing full well that he couldn't handle that. So, I sat there, just close enough so he wouldn't feel alone, but not close enough to smother the guy. "No matter what you decide, I will support you and protect you from Tritter in every way, shape or form. You don't have to go to the hospital. You don't have to talk to the cops. You don't even have to keep going, to keep living, if that is what _you _decide to do, if it's what you want." He opened his eyes again, staring into my face. In that moment I was positive that hecould read my mind.

"I—" he whimpered, biting down on his lip. _Wait until you're ready, _I thought_. _"I'm not ready to let go, even if I am just living to get revenge." I looked confused, apparently, because he told me more. "I wanna see him get screwed over worse than he screwed me, and all the others. I know there were others. He didn't say it, but he had that routine down pact. First tie sexual predators are clumsy and stupid. My father tried to tell me that the human lie detector wouldn't believe me if I told her what he was doing. The way he turned you against me, the way he took a blow torch to everything in my life, even the sheer balls it took to arrest a man and _then _drive him to a motel and rape him…" Greg shook his head, and groped blindly for my hand. I gave it, and he squeezed with all his might—which wasn't much at all. "Just wish I knew if I was number 12 or 112." I nodded, but kept my mouth shut. I caught myself checking my watch; so did he. "How long before my execution," he said mockingly. I sighed, but did some quick calculations and told him. "Think I can get a pardon from the governor?" I wasn't sure, but didn't say so.

"I'll petition him myself," I replied, tears burning behind my eyes. He could see how upset and worried I was, which made him freak out even more. "I'm calling the police and taking back my statement."

"If you do, we'll both go to jail," he said, yawning. He was right, but at least if we shared a cell, I could protect him from all the bad guys. I knew he wouldn't survive prison without a barrel full of Vicodin, a bodyguard, and a gun. I might be able to be the second.

"You want the a shot morphine," I offered, 78% certain he'd say no, I don't want it, but hoping I could give him some relief.

"He can't take me out of the hospital if I'm not fit to stand trial, right," he asked, even though neither one of us knew the answer. I held my arms up, shrugging my shoulders. "You'll make sure I get my pills?"

"If I have to smuggle them to you in my asshole," I swore. "In a little plastic baggie, of course," I added quickly. House cracked the world's tinniest smile, reaching for my other hand, and pulling it to his head. I began to stroke his hair.

"Are you any closer to making a decision," I asked, trying to keep myself form crying. House was almost gone. Regardless of what I did, what we did, he'd be dead within a year. If he went to prison and Tritter had unlimited access to the guy, he'd have a heart attack. If I forced him to go to rehab and Tritter had unlimited access to the guy, he'd kill himself. Even if I undid all the mistakes I'd made, saved him, and made everything okay, he'd either blow his brains out or beg me to do it for him.

"How angry would you be if I said no?" I smiled, and kissed his forehead. He grabbed my hand back, pulling it around his body. I lay there with him, letting the guy relax. "I don't really have a choice, do I? I mean, you're trying to _give _me choices but the fact remains that since I'm not ready to die, I can chose to go to the hospital and be safe, or we can just sit here, do nothing, and I'll go to jail where Tritter will be able to see me whenever he wanted. He will come and 'visit' and he will keep hurting me over and over And I'm gonna keep getting smaller and smaller and smaller until I disappear, forever," he whimpered, again. I wanted to grab a gun and shoot Tritter a couple dozen times, then set the bastard on fire, kill him, bring him back to life and kill him a hundred times.

"I want to stay here and let go, within the hour, but I don't think I'll—I mean, I'll feel horrible if I don't fight. Never fought back when I was a kid. I tried last time, when he was…I fought like Hell but Tritter's so much bigger and stronger than me, even without my 'limitations.'" He started to rub his thigh, head tilted back, free hand stuffed into the pocket of his sweatshirt. I tried to think of some comforting thing to say, but knew that platitudes would mean nothing, not to him. Same with telling him that anything (least of all everything) was or would be okay. He _might_ believe me if I told him that we could make his emotional pain go away eventually, but if I was wrong, it wouldn't be good. If I was wrong, he'd never trust me again. Assuming he could trust me at the time. "I wanna keep fighting but I feel like I don't have any strength left."

"You can have my strength." He nodded, pressing his face into my shirt. He was hurting, scared—almost as bad, if not worse, than he had as a child—and then, to top it all of, he was fighting a losing battle against a monster who could crush him with one finger.

XX

An hour later, House finally agreed to let me take him to the hospital. I walked him to the front desk, rubbed his shoulders, letting him squeeze my hand with all his might, to keep from crying. I smiled. I touched his arm, and shoulder, and hair all the while filling out forms, and watching the stares from the nurse at the admitting desk.

"What the Hell are you glaring at," I snapped at her, which—of course—made the poor guy next to me jump out of his skin. "If he were any other patient, would you be giving him that dirty look? Yeah, that's what I though," I continued to mock the stupid cow. "Be grateful if we don't sue you. Now, if you don't mind, I'm taking my patient upstairs." Greg squeezed my hand even more tightly as he was checked into a private room, and as he got set up in the tiny little bed, filling out even more forms wile we waited for the shrink to come and do his intake interview.

That part actually wasn't too bad. I explained that he had been attacked and now seemed traumatized, unable to speak, or make eye contact. He behaved approximately the way he felt, and didn't say one single inappropriate thing the whole time. The doctor was a bit of an idiot, asking him the same questions multiple times as if he expected the answers to change. Finally the man left him and me alone, at which point House curled up on his side and confessed that he hadn't slept for days. I had the shrink give him a tranquilizer, and sat at his side, stroking his hair while he slept uneasily.

XXX

Once he had been out for a few hours, I picked up the phone and dialed the police station, Tritter's extension.

"Hello," he said in that terrifying, evil, disgusting voice that made me want to reach through the phone and strangle him. "Hello?"

"I know what you did," I said, my voice shaking. He laughed. He actually fucking laughed. Terrified that House might be able to hear him, I placed my free hand over his ear, softly. "I'm not gonna let you get away with this. Even if it means going to prison myself."

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about," Tritter lied.

"You raped him," I sobbed. He repeated his statement. "House had a rape kit done the night you attacked him. He had handprint bruises on his hips, a broken scapula, and your semen inside of him. I'm hanging up and calling the real police now, and I'm telling them that I lied about the scripts."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he told me, trying to sound rational, and kind. House shifted in his sleep, making a soft moaning sound. "House isn't strong enough to stand an investigation. He'll just give up. His pathetic, little heart just won't make it," the cop explained. "And since my 6th amendment rights mean that if I can't confront the person accusing me of any crime, I'll get set free and he'll have died in vain."

"He's stronger than you think. They all were. I know there were others. I know it, he knows it; you know it. Once you're arrested, they're gonna come forward. You'll have so many accusers; you'll be begging them to put you in jail. Otherwise someone's mom or dad or best friend might decide that the justice system couldn't possibly hurt you enough," I said, and hung up before my strength faded and I started crying. I scooted closer to House, wrapping my arms around him, and kissing his hair. He seemed so sad and helpless. All I wanted was to make his pain go away. "Okay," I said, and sighed to myself. "One down, one to go." I dialed again, and this time a softer, kinder voice answered.

"Princeton Police Department," it said. "My name is Cheryl, how can I help you today?" _You can let me get away with killing the bastard who practically murdered the only person I give a crap about. _

"I would like to report a rape," I said, and was transferred to another department. They asked me dozens of questions. Luckily, I knew all the answers. They also kept asking to talk to House, but I told them he had required sedation. Unfortunately, they still needed to speak with him, and would be coming by later, but eventually I was allowed to hang up which was especially good because Greg was starting to come back around. That night, we stayed in his room, watching TV, but not saying much of anything to each other. "You're gonna be alright," I promised. "I talked to the police. They're dropping all the charges against you, but they still need to come in and talk. You hafta make a formal statement. Everything I said was just hearsay, so…but it's not gonna happen tonight, and Tritter is never gonna be allowed to hurt you ever again." I couldn't help but notice how strongly he recoiled when _I_ said the cop's name. "Sorry," I whispered, kissing the top of his head, but he just lay there, staring vacantly at the screen. "You just save your strength for tomorrow okay?" He grunted, and closed his eyes. "Just tell me to go to Hell, or that nothing is ever going to be alright again so I know you're not…gone," I begged. Greg didn't move for what seemed like the longest time. _Shit,_ I thought,_ should have just let him go. _

"I wish I was dead," he said, grumpily. I nodded, and kissed his hair again and again, wondering if he would ever be able to look at me and not hate my guts. I was basically the only person who had ever cared about him, and I'd handed the poor guy over to a psychopath, for a car, a couple thousand dollars and my stupid job. House slept on and off all night for no more than an hour at a time—usually more like ten minutes—but he looked a tiny bit better in the morning than he had the previous afternoon. Although, I wondered if he looked better because he'd gotten something horrific and painful off of his chest or because he was on steady dose of painkillers again, no longer detoxing, no longer dying. I wanted to ask him, but I knew he'd never answer. He had nightmares all night, and he cried in his sleep, and when they brought in the tray with his breakfast, he sat up, smiled weakly, and managed to eat and keep most of it down.

XXXX

The police were supposed to arrive around noon, but at 5:00 I was starting to think they had tossed my report in the trash. That's when the telephone went off. I picked up on the third ring, shooing a nurse out with my other hand. He shook me, not very rough, nervously but I was too busy listening to the voice on the other end to be able to respond. So, instead, I pulled his body closer to mine and rubbed his back. A female cop with a strong New York accent informed me that they were sorry for not making our appointment—her word, not mine—but explained that she and her partner had been extremely busy all day.

"This morning, Detective Tritter entered the precinct and confessed to the kidnapping and rape of more than three dozen people, most of whom he arrested shortly after their assaults. He gave us names, dates and locations, and we've been tracking down the other victims since then." I pictured the woman as a leggy blonde with nice breasts, and imagined her twirling the phone cord between her fingers even though very phones didn't have cords anymore. "We aren't going to need to take Mr. House's statement any longer," she explained, and I sighed relieved, realizing that I had been holding my breath ever since I'd picked up the phone.

"Thank you," I cried, and listened to her say a few more things, none of which I actually understood, before we hung up the phone. Greg, who still had no idea what was going on, looked up at me nervously. "Well, it looks like you finally caught a break. He confessed. They think that one of his victims died as a result of—what he did, which is a—something that can get him the death penalty. He knows that, and he—I guess my call really put the fear of God into him."

"There is no God," House informed me, tiredly. "And I wanna go home now." I sighed, patting him on the shoulder. It was true, we'd only gone to the hospital to keep Tritter from throwing him in jail, but he needed to be in a place like this. He needed therapy and meds and other stuff that I couldn't provide. He needed to stay, but he wanted to leave, and he wasn't used to not getting what he wanted. Greg was strong, but after all he'd been through the last couple of months, he was days away from…what Tritter said. I pressed my hand to thigh, massaging softly. "Please Jimmy? It's Christmas. This can be my present, for Christmas and Hanukah, and my birthday for every year from now until I die. Please?"

"Come here," I pleaded, and he did. "Let's compromise?" He had already stopped listening. _Great, _I thought, as the two of us started to rock back and forth slowly. "You stay here tonight—it's too late to check out anyway—and I get them to agree to release you into my care tomorrow afternoon. Then, we go downstairs to Cuddy's office, and we tell her that you need at least three months off. I'm gonna move in and take care of you, hold you, make you feel better, talk to you, listen to everything you have to say, feed you, and you're gonna to take more than enough Vicodin to make up for the fact that you've been deprived for months. How's that sound?" He shrugged, and hooked his thumb over his lower lip. "You wanna try and get some more sleep?" Another non-response. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

"Yeah, combo of Morphine and Ativan, a _lot _of it; enough to make it stop hurting. You know, forever," he said, somewhat sad and serious, but mostly just testing me to see what I would say, see if I'd agree to it for him.

"I already told you I would do that," I reminded the guy, but knew that he'd never let this be enough. He wanted to hear it again. "Okay, sure thing, Buddy. If you tell me you wanna—okay," I sobbed, burying my face in his shoulder. A minute went by, two, three, five, ten, and after fifteen, he realized that I was really bad off.

"I don't wanna die," he swore. "I hafta out live two bastards now. I gotta beat my dad and the cop." I didn't understand, House saw it again. "I feel like if I can stay alive longer than them, then I can maybe feel something…maybe I can get stronger or better, or—I can't really explain it," he told me, cutting himself off. "But it doesn't matter. The point is, as long as I've got my pills and you, and—my job. Even if they all hate me now—I had to beg Foreman and Cameron for pills, which they wouldn't give me. Then I…screwed up the last case and hit Chase, and he—we…I," he whimpered; an actual goddamn whimper this time, not a half, little, fake one the last time. Then, he picked up the TV remote and threw it across the room with all of his might. "He knew before you did."

"You told Chase," I asked more amazed than concerned or angry, and (I hated to admit) a tiny, little bit jealous. Greg looked away, and even tried pretending to be asleep again. He sighed, he shook his head, and he told me h couldn't say anything. "It's just me," I added, smiling. "I just—it's a…well, you had such a difficult time telling me I can't imagine you telling anybody else."

"I didn't _tell _him anything. Chase guessed it and then he confessed that the same thing had happened to him when he was a little kid. He also gave me a couple Benzos last week when I was detoxing real bad and going through—whatever, from being attacked. He even offered to write prescriptions for me when I got out of jail." I smiled. "Ass-kisser through and through, huh?"

"Yeah, sure that's what it was. He couldn't possibly do anything nice for you," I snarked. He snickered a little. "I think he loves you. I think he told you what he went through because of how bad—because of what happened—because he wants to be with you. He knew you were furious with me and thought that if he gave you everything he ever asked for, you might actually like him. He was lobbying for the spot closest to your heart," I explained.

"Yeah well I blew that chance when I slugged the poor kid," he whined, thinking. That was around the time when the news I had given him really sank in. "Tritter just gave up?" I sighed, and nodded, knowing that I was in for a long night, filled with a lot of his complicated, backwards logic. "Why would he confess like that?"

"House, it's over. You're safe; that's all that matters," I swore, kissing his head gently again. "What difference does it make why he did it? He confessed. He can't take that back." I could see the look on Greg's face. He was thinking things through, figuring it out, trying to come up with a response that I wouldn't be able to shoot down so easily.

"You don't know people like him, Jimmy. You just don't understand. Guys like Tritter, they just don't give in. Ever. I heard what you said to him—I just pretended to be asleep—none of it was a big threat. I mean, look at the situation. He's a decorated cop. I'm a lying, drug-addict doctor who forged prescriptions."

"Allegedly," I mocked, gently.

"You'd ratted me out. I was—am—totally screwed. He had nothing to be afraid of from me. Until yesterday even _you _didn't believe me. Why would anyone else? They'd just say I was lying because my ego's too big to admit that I have a problem or 'cuz I'm afraid of going to jail." _It's even worse than I thought, _I heard my brain saying. House wasn't just going into the rationality of Tritter's confession—which, I was willing to admit was oddly timed—but about how he didn't deserve to be believed or protected.

"The cops I talked to seemed very understanding. They even agreed to drop all charges against you regardless of whether Tritter was convicted," I explained, but he didn't seem to be listening. "Okay, how about this? Maybe there are more victims, ones he isn't willing to admit to, ones who are more sympathetic than you, ones who—I dunno. Maybe he grew a soul, maybe he thinks that he can get protection in jail by admitting to all his wrong doings."

"But you just don't get it! People like him don't think like you and me. They aren't normal. They aren't human! He's not logical, and he sure as Hell isn't afraid of me. That man is up to something. It's a trick. It's a trap. I'm, he's trying to do something to me, trip me up some how. Just gotta figure out what he's doing and how to combat it." I wrapped my arms around his body, pulled him in tightly, and kissed his hair yet again. "You don't understand," he sobbed, pressing his face deep into my shirt. _Sure I do, _I thought. _He did unimaginably horrific things to you, and you lost all control. Now, they're telling you that it's over, on __**his **__terms. You're still not in control. _

"Let's make a deal okay," I promised. He looked up at me for half a second, to show that he was listening but not. "I'm gonna get your new prescriptions filled right now, and you get to hold on o them, decide how much to take and when. Give you some control, hmm?"

"I don't want control. I want answers," he said, but his voice was quaking a bit. Then, he seemed to fully comprehend what I had offered. "Would you really give me my pills," he asked, trying his best not to sound too excited. I nodded, and stood up to get them. "Don't go yet." I sat back down. "It's like he's knocking over his king after trapping me in a Devil's Crossroads," Greg murmured and, as usual, I had no idea what he meant. "It's a chess move, and if you use it correctly you're basically grunted the win." I was still slightly confused. "Do you know anything about chess at all?" I shook my head. "You knock over your king to forfeit the game. You still lose but it's less disgraceful and you save time."

"But you weren't trapped. Not completely. You had—have— me on your side. We called the cops and they believed me, and you and you were here, someplace nobody could touch you. You guys were maybe having at an impasse; nobody could walk away from this a winner, but that's not the same thing." Greg rolled his eyes and pulled the blanket up around his neck and shoulders. I left, went to the pharmacy for his pills, and brought them back to him, but he barely noticed. "Would it make you feel better if I called the police back and asked them to talk to you?" He shook his head. "You wanna talk to me?" _Nope. _"Think you can talk to anybody right now? Okay, that's fine, don't worry about it. Um—do you want me to shut up and leave you, well not alone because I'll still be here but if you want I'll just shut up and sit next to you while you process all of this?" This time he nodded, quietly, and went back to staring up at the ceiling and moving his mouth a little. I thought he was trying to calm himself down by focusing on something simple, and while I wanted to know what this was so I could help, I knew him well enough to know he'd never tell me. "Can I apologize again, for the whole—for ratting you out to Tri—to that bastard?"

"Jimmy shut up," he said, scrunching up his nose. "You said you were gonna be quiet, but you can't even do that for me." He looked at me for a minute, and then shook his head. "You actually feel bad about that. You didn't know—although not for lack of trying on my part—you thought I was out of control, probably thought it was 'cuz of the pills and as stupid as that was, you just wanted to help me. I get that, and I forgive you for almost letting me get hurt real bad. Hell, I forgave you the second you gave me those pills in my apartment." I've always hate it when he says stuff like that. It made me wonder just how valuable a human being he considered himself to be, and caused me to believe that he only acted all cocky and arrogant to cover up for severe insecurities. "Oh boy, here we go again," he said, rolling his eyes. "You were trying to help me but you just went about it in the worst way possible. Next time you wanna help me, toss the TV set in my bath." I squeezed his hand, roughly. "Okay, clearly that was in bad taste, I that's my fault I really have no idea where the line is."

"Yeah you do," I reminded the poor guy, kissing my face, and holding him close, and all the other stuff he liked. "And you need to shave so you don't look like crap anymore. See, same line."

"No that's right _on_ the line. Over the line would have been saying I look like death, or comparing me to—I dunno. I'm having a little bit of trouble concentrating." That wasn't surprising, after all, the guy was on a ton of meds, and he had gotten used to (as much as he hated the way it made him feel) being on a tiny amount of Vicodin. "And stop looking at me like that. I know you thought you were trying to protect me."

"Actually, I was mad at you and I wanted to hurt you. I also sort of—I think I just wanted my life to go back to normal and I convinced myself that you needed treatment because it was easier than dealing with what I was going to do to you. Part of me knew you'd never take that deal, and I didn't care what happened anymore. It just took a while for me to figure that out," I explained, but House did his whole obnoxious I-know-so-much-more-than-you thing.

"Well of course you say that _now. _But you agonize over decisions. You wouldn't even buy a new brand of cereal without thinking about it for at least 3 days. You told Tritter, because you knew I was spinning out of control. I was sinking and I was gonna take you and everyone else I could get my hands on down with me. Sure you had selfish reasons for what you did, but if you wanted to hurt me you wouldn't have bothered with making sure I could go someplace to get clean and save my medical license."

"You know what's weird?" He rolled his eyes. "You're using my usual argument, and I'm using yours. It's like we've swapped personalities, like you suddenly started to think that I'm right and you're wrong. That concerns me, because you tend to act like you're always right," I tried to explain, but he still wasn't listening. So, I let him watch TV, mouthing something I still couldn't make out.

XXXXX

House didn't eat dinner that night, but I let him get away with it, mainly because I knew that he sometimes skipped meals here and there, especially when he wasn't doing so well. He slept on and off again, sniffing and making sad little noises, his hair rubbing under my chin. I tried everything I could think of to comfort him, but (of course) I was unable to help. "It's going to be alright," I promised my unconscious, exhausted, pain addled friend. "I'm gonna make sure of it."

The next morning he wouldn't even pretend to pick at his breakfast, or attempt to hide bits of food in his napkin. "What are you doing?' I scooted closer to him, rubbing tiny little circles around his belly. "Is your stomach still bothering you?"

"I'm not detoxing anymore, I'm fine," he spat, trying to sound hateful but coming off terrified. A minute went by. He looked over at me sadly. "I just—I can't help being freaked out. Tritter said he was gonna—he threatened to…he said it didn't matter whether I went to rehab or jail, he was gonna keep…attacking me, no matter what. So, he said—he said, well the point is, he's like me. He's not the sort of guy who just gives in. I didn't even give in when you guys cornered me," he explained. I nodded, pulling him closer to me, and stroking his hair softly.

"I want you to relax," I said, wanting it to sound like an order, but not going anywhere close to pulling it off. "Have you been taking the new meds?" Greg didn't say anything, he didn't have to. I sighed, pressing my lips to his temple softly. "You don't have to take them for very long, but while you're here, hiding out, you might as well enjoy the benefits." He looked away, pursing his lips. "You don't like them? No—that's not it, sorry. Okay, I got it. You think if you keep taking the sedatives then everyone—including me—is gonna start to think that you might actually belong in this place?"

"I don't give one crap what everyone else thinks, but I don't want you to…yeah, okay. I don't want _you_ to think of me as some crazy person who can't even function. It's just. I was doing perfectly fine before this, sort of. I was coping until he came in and started to screw with me, and my life, and my—and me."

"I don't think you need them. I don't think you belong here—well, alright, I sort of do but it's got nothing to do with your current situation or the Vicodin—and I sure as Hell don't see you as some pathetic infant who can't handle day to day life. We came here to keep them from being able to put you away, and the only reason I'm offering you the Benzos is because you are stressed out and tired." House made his _whatever _gesture but started to pick at bits of the food.

"Can I go home now," he practically begged, rolling onto his side, cuddling close to me, and rubbing his leg as if it were hurting more than usual. It wasn't uncommon for Greg to try and manipulate people; Hell, he did it all the time. Aside from diagnostics, manipulation was one of the few things he could do well, one of the things he did best. But at this point he was over doing it a little. I wasn't sure why, but it made me think that he was asking for one thing while he actually wanted (perhaps even needed) something else. "Please? It can be my Christmas present."

"You never ask for presents. I tried to give you one on your birthday, just after we met, and you threatened to flush it down the toilet?" He smiled weakly. "What's really going on here?

"I don't ask for presents but you insist on getting me stuff anyway. Figured I'd like this better than some ugly tie. And what's going on here is that Tritter is jail, I'm gonna get away with what I did, and you don't hate me anymore. All I want now is to be able to go home. I like my apartment. I feel safe there." That's when I knew he was lying, but still had no idea what about.

"You actually wanna stay here, don't you," I asked, cautiously. He shrugged just a little. "Come here," I insisted, wrapping my arms around his body, and holding him tightly. I want you to know that whatever you do decide, I will always be there for you, I'll stick by your side no matter what." He grunted, and rolled his eyes, but eased up on the pathetic act. I held him for what felt like an extremely long time, while I tried to think about what was happening to us, what he wanted, and wishing I knew how to do anything that would make him feel even the tiniest bit better. "Are you still worried because you think they're letting you off too easily?" He finally nodded, still silent, and looking fully exhausted in every way possible. "They aren't. This is not easy. You have been kidnapped, you have been raped, and you got the crap beaten out of you. Then, the same man that did all those things to you started to take apart your life, piece by piece, stomping on it. First he took your pills—don't struggle, you need to hear all of this together to understand just how horribly you've been treated the last couple of months but I promise to make it quick and as painless as I can. Then, he tried to rip us apart, and he almost did it, but I stuck by you. So, he went after me. He froze my bank accounts, he took my car, he made it impossible for me to do my job, because I couldn't write prescriptions—which hurt you too because you had to beg your team for pills and when they wouldn't' give you any you had to go to Cuddy, who you have problems with anyway—but I still didn't get mad at you. Then, he pushed you and he pushed me harder, he hurt us. He made you go through detox, and not in a safe or healthy way. You were in pain, you were sick, you were scared, you had just been raped and you couldn't tell anybody—" Greg cut me off.

"I told Chase. He helped me. He even gave me some of—he takes Benzos, not while he's working, not often, just when things get really bad—anyway he gave me some. Didn't help with the pain, but I wasn't as freaked out. I wasn't half as alone and terrified as you think."

"I'm sure Chase's pills were extremely helpful, but he didn't go home with you at night. He didn't sit on your couch and wrap his arms around you and promise to make everything okay. You were alone at home, and you were terrified that the cop was coming back. Then, things escalated. I got frustrated, and it made me mad at you. That patient almost died. You had a panic attack when Chase grabbed you and you hit him and I was afraid that the kid was gonna go to the cop on his own. So, I tried to…I was mad and I was worried and I thought I could protect you a little. I ratted you out to the same monster who had attacked you and who was trying to destroy your life. Then, Cuddy and I conspired against you to force you into rehab—which by the way you don't really need—by taking away the only thing you could count on anymore. We took your meds and we made you sicker, and I completely shattered your trust in me. I know what was happening when I walked in. You were preparing to try and kill yourself, weren't you?" He shrugged, looking away; _I can't answer that question without making you mad at me, _he meant."After all that you don't think that you've suffered enough?"

"He said, that the deal wasn't—he said the deal wasn't fake but it might as well be because he was gonna keep coming back and hurting me no matter where I was, okay? And I know that's what they all say, but he meant it. He was. He had…he—he," House stammered. I rubbed his back gently, and reached for the pills, taking one out, and placing it in his mouth. "He was never going to leave me alone. Guys like him don't stop. They never stop, and you expect me to believe that he just walked into the police station and confessed to attacking a bunch of people?" I didn't know what to say, except that no one had told me what was happening aside from Tritter's confession. Personally I believed that he had done something really horrible—even worse than what he'd done to House—and was trying to save his own ass. He thought they might go easy on him if they thought he was cooperating. I told this to Greg and he responded in his usual way, by making a soft sound that I was unable to understand, and looked away, but I had a feeling that he might be starting to believe me.

"It's over now, or at least, well…that is—the worst is over now, and even if he is trying to pull something, I won't let him get away with it okay?" He nodded quickly, looking at me with a concerned look on his face, and pursing his lips. "Don't say you believe me if you think I'm wrong or if…do you understand why I'm asking you to do that, Buddy?" He shrugged, but smiled a tiny bit, like maybe he was actually starting to trust me. "Attaboy. Tell me I'm a jackass, please? I just wanna know that the real you is still in there," I begged, touching his hair softly. House looked up at me defiantly, and even managed another small smile.

"Go to Hell," he muttered. "Jackass." I smiled back, and held him close. "Tell me the thing again. Say that everything's gonna be okay. Don't believe you, but it makes me feel better. A little."

"Everything is going to be okay," I swore, meaning every word of it, and pulling his body even closer to my own.


End file.
